Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
Located inside an old warehouse, the art gallery where the exhibition was taking place was extremely spacious, with tall office-like partitions that had been arranged to create a labyrinth of corridors, leading to different rooms.
Mary made it to the warehouse with over half an hour to spare before the exhibition was due to close. The place seemed packed.
At the entry doors, she was greeted by the gallery owners, a charming gay couple in their early forties, who handed her a map of the labyrinth inside.
According to the map, Betsy was sharing a small room with one other artist, located about halfway down the labyrinth.
Mary unzipped her leather jacket and began making her way through the crowd and the corridors.
She navigated past four different rooms before she finally got to the one where Betsy’s pieces were being displayed.
‘Oh my god, you made it,’ Betsy said, as soon as she saw Mary appear at the door. Her entire face seemed to morph into a giant smile.
‘Of course.’ Mary smiled back, giving Betsy a hug. ‘I told you I’d be here, didn’t I? And wow…’ She took a step back, allowing her eyes to look at Betsy from head to toe. ‘You look fantastic.’
‘Aww, thank you so much,’ Betsy said, showing Mary inside. There were about ten people inside the small room. ‘Have you seen the other rooms yet? There are some incredible artists displaying here tonight.’
‘I haven’t.’ Mary came clean. ‘I’m a little late. I just got here, so I came straight to your room.’
‘I really am glad you came.’ Betsy hugged Mary again. ‘I’ll leave you to look around on your own, it’s better that way, but please come find me at the end, OK?’
‘Of course.’
The lighting in the room was moody… almost somber, reflecting the theme of the art pieces displayed in it.
As Betsy walked away, Mary turned to face the wall to her right, where three people had gathered, all attentively studying a painting that hung from it.
Mary decided that that would be a good place to start.
The piece was a framed, 24 by 24 inches, spray-painted canvas. It was titled Veils of Darkness, by Judith Wallace – the other artist who was sharing the room with Betsy.
‘Amazing, don’t you think?’ a dark-haired woman with a hawk nose and large dangling earrings commented, addressing the older gentleman standing to her right. His hair was cut short, exposing his ears, which seemed a little too large for his head.
Mary had paused just a step or so behind them.
‘You can clearly see the veils through all that darkness if you angle your body just a little to either side,’ the woman continued.
‘It’s all a question of perspective and contrast.’ As she said those words, the woman swung her body a few inches to her left, paused for a second or two, then swung it over a few inches to her right, in a slow rocking motion.
Mary frowned, took a second, and then copied the woman’s swinging motion – first left, then right. As she did, through the corner of her eye, she noticed that the man standing to her left was doing the exact same.
‘Yeah, I see it,’ the gentleman standing with the woman ahead of Mary said. He too was gently moving his body from left to right in front of the painting.
‘And look.’ The woman carried on. ‘From this angle.’ She stopped with the gentle rocking motion and tilted only her head to her right. ‘In a standing still position, you can see a different effect – as if the veils were flailing in the wind.’
Mary’s frown deepened, as she too paused her subtle swinging motion and once again, copied the woman’s movement.
The man to Mary’s left did the same. His frown was just as deep as hers.
‘I love it,’ the woman continued. ‘What an incredible piece.’
‘Absolutely phenomenal,’ the gentleman with her said in agreement, but his words seemed to lack conviction.
As they walked away, Mary stood motionless, her eyes still on the painting on the wall in front of her, but the look on her face was one of total confusion. She repeated the swinging motion first, then the head movement.
‘Was she joking?’ the man who had been standing to Mary’s left that whole time asked, in an almost monotone voice.
‘Or can you actually see any of the things that that woman just said? Veils flailing in the wind and whatnot?’ He was standing still, except for his head, which he kept on angling slightly right before straightening it back again, then repeating the movement.
‘Not even close,’ Mary replied, her eyes still on the painting. ‘You?’
‘Not a thing. Regardless of the angle, all I can see is a squared canvas sprayed black. That’s all.’
Mary nodded because that was exactly what they’d been looking at for the past two minutes – a squared canvas that had been evenly sprayed with black paint. No matter how much they rocked their bodies or angled their heads, all they could see was a black canvas.
‘Yeah, I’m going to have to agree with you here,’ Mary said back, finally allowing her eyes to move to the man. As she did, her breath got caught somewhere between her nostrils and her lungs.
He was around six-foot tall, give or take.
His black hair was tousled carelessly, with some stray edges curling in and out in all different directions, which gave him a youthful, somewhat skater look, even though he appeared to be in his early thirties.
His three o’clock shadow was naturally uniform, over skin that was a couple of shades away from olive.
His body was slender but muscular, something that was clearly noticeable by how much his long-sleeved shirt stretched over his chest and biceps.
His eyes, under strong eyebrows, were just as dark as his hair, adding a touch of mystery to a face that was certainly attractive, but not in a traditional sense.
He wasn’t movie star good-looking, but there was a certain quality about him that Mary found it hard to define – a weird sort of magnetism, perhaps.
It was as if the more that she looked at him, the more everyone else in the room seemed to dim away, while he simply stood there… drawing all the light into his center.
‘Well,’ he said, this time locking eyes with Mary. ‘The piece is called Veils of Darkness. I can definitely see the darkness, so I guess one out of two isn’t so bad.’
Mary finally breathed out and smiled a smile that lingered for a couple of seconds longer than it should have. ‘I guess so.’
‘Sorry,’ the man said, reaching for his cellphone that had just started vibrating inside his back pocket. He checked the screen, raised his eyebrows, and quickly exited the room, while bringing the phone to his ear.
Mary stood still for another couple of seconds, wondering where such incredible magnetism came from.
Was it charm? Charisma? His looks? A combination of everything?
Mary couldn’t really tell, but it was obvious that she wasn’t alone in her thoughts because as the man stepped outside the room, Mary saw at least two other women turn to follow him with their eyes.
She chuckled, before her eyes moved left to another art piece, this one a 42 by 30 inches, unframed, oil-on-canvas painting. The piece was titled “Reflection”. The artist – Betsy Fletcher.
As Mary’s eyes studied Betsy’s work, she felt goosebumps caress the back of her neck. This was nothing like Veils of Darkness.
The painting depicted a woman, who looked to be no older than twenty-four… maybe… standing inside a bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The only problem was, the two images – the woman in front of the mirror and her reflection – didn’t quite match each other.
The woman, who looked devastatingly attractive in the painting, was standing confidently and carefree…
chin up… squared shoulders… vivid eyes fixed forward…
flawless skin… and long, black shiny hair that seemed to belong to a Disney princess.
The smile on her lips was so bright, it could’ve substituted a star up in the night sky.
Her reflection, on the other hand, showed none of those qualities.
The breathtaking beauty had, somehow, withered away from her.
The vivid eyes looked almost void of life and tremendously sad, with the white in them tinged yellow, and their veins looking like a map of tiny burst blood vessels.
The smile had also vanished from her lips, and the impression that Mary got was that they looked to be quivering, but not from cold, or sadness…
they were quivering from fear. Her posture had lost all of its confidence, with her shoulders slumped forward and her chin down, as if even at such a young age, life had already defeated her.
The shine in her hair had turned dull, and her once flawless skin was blotchy, with a few odd thin lines showing on her forehead and left cheek, but they looked more like scars than wrinkles.
Despite it being a little disturbing, Mary really did like the painting.
It was an impressive piece of art, created by a very talented artist, but what had truly touched Mary’s feelings was that that painting was clearly a self-portrait of Betsy – a girl who was trying her best to appear strong and happy, but who, at such a young age, seemed to have already been through so much.
To put it in simple terms – the bright outside didn’t reflect the hurt, nor the fear, or the darkness from the inside.
But the most incredible aspect of that piece was that it didn’t only reflect Betsy’s life, it reflected a whole world of people out there – including Mary herself.